


Darkness

by Paint Me a Symphony (youngerdrgrey)



Category: House M.D.
Genre: Eventual Character Death, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-10-31
Updated: 2008-11-01
Packaged: 2017-12-18 07:13:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,287
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/877070
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/youngerdrgrey/pseuds/Paint%20Me%20a%20Symphony
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I can still feel your lips on mine. And, when I close my eyes, I can imagine you're still here with me.<br/>AU. Implied eventual character death. Established Cameron/Thirteen</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Cameron's POV.  
> (#170 of 1000 Theme Challenge, "Darkness")

I often try these days to find a moment to close my eyes and breathe. It doesn't happen all the time, what with the running around to this show and that, and spending all my nights hunched over sideways in the chair by what passes for a bed these days. But, whenever I can, I like to lay back and rest my head. I'll stare at the white dots on the ceiling and then I close my eyes, take a deep breath, and stop.

Stop breathing. Stop thinking. Stop living.

In those times, all it is is darkness, everywhere. It encircles me, wrapping me like a blanket and capturing me in a hold that begs for my form. I wait in that silent recluse for only a little while. Just long enough to step away. I start again though. I always inhale when it comes to that point where my brain starts screaming at me, in a tone that sounds so much like our old boss:

"Hey! We need air, you idiot!"

I breathe then. I can't help it. I may need the chance to hide, but I don't need to do it that way.

The nurse makes to leave the room and I make sure to thank her for coming. I do that every time someone looks in on you. Even if all they come to do is to see if they can drape a sheet over you and carry your lifeless form down to the morgue. I won't let them do that to you. When you do leave, I'm going to drape you in a blanket, and me, Taub, and Kutner are going to carry you down the steps and out the front door. We're going to put you in the casket House picked as a joke, and lay you to rest right by your mother. It's just about the only funeral planning done. But, that's only because Foreman and the guys planned that part out. I refuse to help them, because you aren't dead.

You aren't.

You're still breathing.

You may not be able to talk, or laugh, or even remember who the hell I am. But, your spirit isn't dead. It isn't, because if it was, I wouldn't be sitting here, holding your hand, and looking for the words to say to make you come back to me for even a second.

I would be home, with Becky, trying not to think about how we should make your resting place a secret, to keep up the mysterious charade you've had since you came to Princeton.

No one got to know too much about you. 'Cept for me, I got to know everything. From the day you were born, to the day you forgot who I was for the first time, I knew everything. I know even now, that you've got only a few days left. It's why my breath hitches every time the door opens, and the wind blows, and the machine beeps. It's why the very white lights of the hospital seem to be mocking me. It's why I look for those moments when I can close my eyes and melt away. Because, really, melting would be a great alternative to this. I could just disappear and never return. Yeah, that could work.


	2. Chapter 2

And as the monitors watching your breathing hitch once more, it's all I can do not to break down again. I sit there quietly, repeating my mantra in my head.

"Breathe, baby, breathe. In. Out. Breathe, baby, breathe."

It's growing harder and harder to stay positive these days. From the hospital to keeping track of Becky, I barely get to do what I'm begging you to. You should see her, dollface. You should hear her. She's getting so big. Yesterday, I was tucking her in bed and she looked at me with her big, pretty eyes - I have to agree, they do look better on her than on me - and asked, "Where's Remy?"

I didn't break down then. I knew it would make her worry, but I swear another piece of my heart broke right then.

The monitor makes another sound, and I know you've got your air back, for now.

I hate this.

I honestly, completely hate this.

I hate waking up in the morning either emotionally worn in our bed, or physically estranged in this chair. They might as well have sewn my name into it for the number of days I have spent unmoving from this spot.

Oh, babe, this isn't fair. Of all the things your mother gave you that you never recognized - your gorgeous eyes, your cute nose, your soft lips - it had to be the Huntington's that brought us together. And, that will tear us apart.

But I don't want us to be apart. I don't want to lose you, to forget you, to never feel you in my arms again, to never hear you singing in the shower, or see the light sparkle in your eyes as you listen to Becky recount another story.

It never mattered to you where Rebecca came from. It never mattered to you how long we danced around our feelings before admitting to them. But, it always bugged you, the disease. You complained about how you never wanted to leave me, and that you would have to. You pushed me away and belittled me, tearing at my already desperate heart. Yet, I couldn't stay away.

I want to hate you. I really do.

God, Remy, I want to hate you the way you tried to make me hate you. I want to hear the number Thirteen and go on a violent spree, tearing down anything that gets in my path. I want to forget the way you made me feel, and the amazing time we have shared. But, at the same time, I only want to go back to that first day I saw you, when you first came to join House's silly game. I was still with Chase at the time, but I had felt something even then. And I still feel it now.

I still hear my name rolling off your tongue as you said the three words that make me melt, every time. I still smell that fragrance - that mix of coffee, maple, and determination - that I relate to you. I-I can still feel your lips on mine. And, when I close my eyes, I can imagine you're still here with me. I don't have to recognize that you lie on that damn cot, because, in the dark, there is no reality. In the dark, it's just me and whoever else I want to be. I want to be you right now.

I want to be the one dying, because it would surely be less painful than watching you do so. I look at you, and tears pool within my eyes, threatening to spill over and ruin the cold exterior I've built over the last two months. I still don't even know how two months have passed so quickly. How the hell did I end up here, by your bedside watching as you're forced to breathe by machine, knowing that pretty soon that won't even be enough? Nothing can stop this disease from taking you from me. Eventually, I'm going to have to let you go, Remy. But, until then, I'll just close my eyes, just for a second; I won't stay there for too long, because then there'll be no one to look over you. I'm just going to close them, and, when I open them again, things will be better, they'll feel better. Or, maybe, just maybe, I won't open them again. That way, we can be together in the darkness forever.


End file.
